Just like the movies. These days, most ransom notes were typed up and printed. But Mrs Wilson wasn't to know that.
'How did you destroy it?' I asked.
She lowered her hands. Crossed her arms. 'Set fire to it.'
'Where?'
'I burned it in the sink,' she said. 'Then I washed the ashes away.'
'So there's no trace of it?'
'None.'
I said, 'Do you mind if I sit down?'
She shook her head, sat down in the armchair and crossed her ankles. I sat opposite. She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward.
I didn't know where to go with this. 'Can you tell me anything about the ransom note?'
'The envelope was white,' she said. 'There was no name, no address, no postmark. He must have popped it in the letterbox.'
'This morning?'
'Maybe last night. I don't know.'
'What time did you go to bed?' I asked.
'I don't know,' she said again. 'I was out late, looking for Bruce. It wasn't here then. I had a couple of drinks after that.' She shrugged. 'Only way I can get to sleep.'
'Do you still have the envelope?'
She shook her head. 'I thought I should burn it too.'
'Pity,' I said. 'What did the note say? Do you remember?'
'Every word.'
'Slowly, if you don't mind.'
I noted down the words as she spoke them:
Mrs Wilson,
Sorry about this but I need the money.
250 grand in cash by Friday night.
Deliver the money and I will deliver your son.
I'll tell you where.
Burn this letter after you've read it.
'That's it?' I asked.
'Yes.'
'Word for word?'
'Yes. I knew I was going to have to destroy it so I memorised it.'
'He didn't use Bruce's name?'
She shook her head.
That was interesting. And authentic. Most kidnappers didn't refer to the victim by name.
'And there was no warning about you contacting the police?' I asked.
'Nothing,' she said. 'Otherwise I wouldn't have allowed Dr Snow to call you.'
Unusual. Most ransom notes, even if they didn't mention the police specifically, said to tell no one. It would have seemed like an oversight for Mrs Wilson to leave that out, but there must be some point to it in her mind. She must have wanted Dr Snow to get in touch with us. Could be the shrink was right and Mrs Wilson was looking for help to accept her son's death.
'When I spoke to Dr Snow,' I said, 'she had the feeling you were going to pay up.'
'Of course. I've contacted the bank. I'm picking up the money tomorrow.'
'They were okay with that?'
'I spoke to the manager. Told him it was a family emergency.'
'Still, I'm surprised.'
'He wasn't keen,' she said. 'Told me it couldn't be done. But I'm a good customer. I let him know that he didn't want to upset me or I'd withdraw all my money and deposit it elsewhere. His attitude changed. Suddenly he couldn't be more helpful.'
Yeah, losing an account like Mrs Wilson's in the current financial climate would be more than his job was worth. 'I'd advise you against paying up,' I said.
'You can't stop me.'
'That's right,' I said. 'If you want to give your money away, that's up to you.'
'It doesn't matter to me.' She got to her feet. 'I want my son back, whatever the cost.'
'Okay,' I said. 'I know you do.'
I could have used Erica's help right now. It was unfair of my uncle to send me here on my own. What made him think I was capable of dealing with crazy people, I don't know. I found sane people hard enough.
'I know what you're thinking,' Mrs Wilson said.
I doubted it. 'What's that?'
'What if I pay the ransom and Bruce still doesn't come back?'
'That's a strong possibility,' I said. It really did sound as if she was trying to find a way to get rid of him.
'It's a chance I have to take.'
What annoyed me was that she'd probably go and deliver the money to a random spot in the middle of nowhere and some passing tramp would pick it up. Screw that. If she was determined to give her money away, there were other people who could use it. Me, for instance.
Oh, it crossed my mind, I admit it. But only for a second or two.
But then it crossed my mind that it might have crossed someone else's mind too.
As Dr Snow had said, supposing a ransom note existed, we didn't know that Mrs Wilson had written it herself. Why go to the bother of writing a note and then burning it?
God, this was a mess.
If Mrs Wilson was determined to hand over her cash, there was only one way I could think of to keep her and her money from parting for good.
'Mrs Wilson,' I said. 'When you're told where to deliver the money, let me know. Could be dangerous. I'll deliver it for you.'
'That's very kind,' she said. 'But I've already had an offer.'
16
'What can I do for you, officer?' Les Green asked.
I liked to think I kept an open mind, but I'd already decided Mrs Wilson's boyfriend was an utter scumbag before I met him.
He looked harmless enough. An inch or two over six feet, friendly smile, relaxed. He had strange hands, though. I noticed when he held one out for me to shake. His fingers were crooked, as if they'd been broken and not re-set. As if someone had given his hands a few hard smacks with a hammer.
Not the sort of hands you'd expect a photographer to have.
Mrs Wilson had given me his address and enough background information to explain why she was sending me to an artist's studio in Stockbridge.
They'd made up last night, she'd said. Their relationship was back on.
Les Green's studio was the end one of five. It was a small space, and it looked even smaller because of the clutter. The walls were covered in framed photographs. Mainly portraits. There was one of Mrs Wilson, looking lost.
The studio floor was carpeted in an industrial grey. There were a couple of big lights on tripods and a black umbrella thing and a reflector disc. A wide strip of white material ran down from a ten-foot-high board and draped across the floor for another ten feet or so. Various cameras and lenses lay about the place. A dozen empty frames
